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No, Angel

Not six-wingèd, nor a fiery wheel,
not four-bodied, though a living being,
human but for other human’s seeing
only what they a priori feel
to be true. Did he say fuck? Did he steal?
Was he sometimes prone to disagreeing?
Black? A teen? All but guaranteeing
some journalistic posthumous appeal
to see the nuance, meaning the bad sides.
No life is a story, and no story has
two sides: it is a universe, expanding,
not some taxonomic Alcatraz.
Here is the truth your subtlety elides:
there is no peace surpassing understanding.

I’m reminded of Chimamanda Adiche talking about the danger of a single story. She ends with:

“The American writer Alice Walker wrote this about her Southern relatives who had moved to the North. She introduced them to a book about the Southern life that they had left behind: “They sat around, reading the book themselves, listening to me read the book, and a kind of paradise was regained.” I would like to end with this thought: That when we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”

ooohhh, fuckin oopsie …. bad enough that the Sutter Home Zinfandel cork (with that hideous, venal and mocking $ stamped on that faux cork) insisted on not responding to special red wine cork remover, whereby I had to take my favorite top into the bathroom and try to mitigate the humiliation … but now, OH NOW! … I’ve left out an end boldface html code …how will I ever live live it down …YINZ ….?

so, have you thought about seeding the green freckle throated, ‘white’ [not at all to be confused with the word ‘white’ as applied to so very many of the ‘Masters of Our Planet’] digitalis … honey?

(I think it may be that time, in the historically moisture laden berg, if you’re thinking about it. Pitt’s Berg has plenty of left over bricks you could use to gently flatten those teeny digitalis seeds onto the surface of the ground (as they reportedly need at least a bit of light to germinate.)